


Rise, My Children of Dust

by fewlmewn



Series: Original Stories [15]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Agender Character, Asexual Relationship, Branding, Character Study, F/M, Female Character of Color, Found Family, Gender Dysphoria, Heart-to-Heart, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Nonverbal Communication, Original Character(s), Other, Physical Therapy, Platonic Soulmates, Prophetic Visions, Religious Cults, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Ritualistic Mutilation, Sign Language, Trans Female Character, Worldbuilding, mentions of trauma, polygender character, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-10-10 12:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20527805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fewlmewn/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: There are stories told by travelling merchants, by local druidic tribes roaming the desert, shared between elders and children of the clans that populate the abandoned lands of what once was a sprawling jungle... according to those legends, at the feet of Queen's Drop Mountain, hidden in the desert near where Queen's Fall is, the Wellspring of the mythical Demigoddess Havia the Quencher harbors great and awe-inspiring secrets. A group of adventurers, who call themselves the Sunmight, is trying to solve a riddle in order to uncover such mysteries, but the puzzle before them will make them question themselves and what they stand for.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Sunmight, a group of travelers involved in an expedition into the desert, finally reach their destination - after several years of research - led by Earth-Speaker Phryn, who is chasing a prophetic vision.

_ Wellspring of Havia the Quencher, near Queen's Drop Mountain _

_ ~45 miles from Queen's Fall _

A jagged and jarring landscape opens before them, right beyond rolling dunes of sand, barely out of view, nestled away. Where once legends would’ve had a crystalline spring to help parched wanderers, a hidden oasis in the shade of an ancient verdant jungle, now only towering pylons of rock break the bleak, deserted horizon, almost to form a circle.

Phryn had never seen such a formation before, and the sight of a most peculiar sculpture immediately warns them that the placement might be intentional. The center of the clearing is interrupted by a large structure, almost 4 meters tall, made of polished rock, chiseled to resemble the compact form of a humanoid. Grooves run all across its height and width to draw a most awe-inspiring picture. Arms as large as palm trees clutched close to the round central body, fingers like skipping stones, each as big as one of Keez’a’s paws. At the top, clouded by a passing wisp of sand and dust, is a domed shape, with slits for eyes and a narrow, oblong slot in place of its mouth, expectant, as if something could be inserted within, impossibly out of reach. As soon as the passing winds clear the view, and as the sun breaches the clouds above to illuminate the strange monument, something shiny catches Phryn’s eyes. Seven beams of metal cross the totem, resembling spears plunged into the stone.

“What in the Oracle’s eyes is that?!” barks Almyran, clanging his club against his dented shield in frustration.

Keez’a clicks their tongue and chirps, and absent-mindedly signs “I don’t know” to the entire band. Phryn is at the back of the expedition, but years training with the scouts and rangers of their tribe taught them how to be observant, and they’ve grown to be the sentinel for the rest of the Sunmight, such is the name the five adventurers have taken for themselves.

Bahet quietly steps forward, taking care not to cross the threshold created by the stone spires, and carefully inspects them, her minute form growing in size as her body casts a radiant aura that sets the sand all around alight.

She curses in Emeran, heavily accented and with more profanities than you’d expect from a woman of faith, before relating her findings to the others.

“Enchanted, maybe a trap, maybe a cage keeping us from dangers within. Tread carefully.”

Khetiwe is silent at the head of the group. Puzzled, she scans the grounds before her.

“Water?” she asks in a sing-song voice, confused by what she’s seeing, or rather, by what is missing. Keez’a touches her bulging bicep with a furred paw in consolation and shakes their head, explaining with simple motions what must’ve happened in the area.

“Gone. Magic. Sand arrives. Stone grows. Grows. Man of stone. Man inside stone? Don’t know. Strange spears – seven. Circle of stone. Danger. Maybe? Don’t know. No water. Sorry.”

“Oh. So we camp now?” she suggests with a timid smile on her face, already sinking her war hammer in the sand at her feet.

Everyone looks at Phryn, and they nod and start walking ahead towards the closest stretch of packed sand to prepare a refuge for the coming hours. It’s their responsibility; after all, it was Phryn who had gathered old friends to accompany them on this mission. It had been a leap of faith, really, but the tribe elder had said that the first vision an acolyte gets when passing through the rituals is the one that must be sought. And Phryn had unmistakably, without a shred of doubt, seen a gushing spring surrounded by a desert – for days in their dreams they’d slept beside that fresh fount of solace, drinking its water and washing their burning wounds in its shallow crystalline pools, while they waited for consciousness to come to them following the ceremonial mutilation. By the Earth, even after returning among the living, Phryn had thought the vision a fever dream, induced by the rush of the ritual, brought by the unfathomable pain, a product of the loss they’d just survived, an hallucination caused by the medicinal herbs needed to achieve a full recovery – but perhaps that was the entire point of the ritual in the first place.

Finding a decent spot, Phryn clasps their hands and closes their eyes, picturing the final result, and with a rumble, sand begins to levitate into shape. Within a few minutes, as the rest of the Sunmight is unpacking their gear, Phryn has built a red-colored hut from myriads of grains of sand, casting them into solid, baked clay. One hole at the top for the fumes of their campfire, and a narrow door at the front to allow entry. Almyran secures a dark grey waxed tarp at the entrance, while Keez’a and Khetiwe forage for twigs and other kindling. Bahet starts praying in relative silence, with the occasional expletive thrown in whenever she forgets to mention something in her request, and after a few heated minutes of one-sided conversation, a beam of light comes cascading down through the ceiling. When the brightness fades, a banquet of colorful fruits, bread in many shapes and grains, and jugs of water has appeared on the cloth in front of Bahet’s kneeling form. She bursts into laughter and yells “I am thankful!” to the evening sky.

The Sunmight spend the night making merry inside their freshly-made abode, with their divine rations and a warm hearth to keep them cozy. Khetiwe and Keez’a offer whatever wisdom they have in regards to the mystery ahead of them, but both end up suggesting outlandish and creative approaches to the problem; frankly, they’d all be surprised if anything they said came to be, but their child-like foresight has been known to turn the tide before, so the entire group listens intently, only breaking into giggles a couple of times. The two end up fast asleep on one side of the hut soon after; Khetiwe’s muscled form sinks on their shared bedroll, boneless and akimbo, while Keez’a curls up near their companion, shiny black fur tickling Khetiwe’s mostly bare body where they’re connected. Contented purrs and deep, sleep-laden breaths resonate across the curved walls, and the rest of the group sits closer to plan the day ahead.

Phryn might’ve been raised differently, wandering across the sun-soaked desert with their tribe, and they are well aware that their upbringing is leagues away from that of the settled folks. But in the years after the ritual, after becoming Earth Speaker, as they chased clues and any shred of information regarding the vision they’d seen wherever anything could be found, they had had the chance to meet and cross paths with countless different people – some more friendly than others. Phryn wasn’t alien to the ways of farmers, who only ever lived in one place without ever moving, faithful servants of the soil and land they cherished; they were closely acquainted with the traditions of folks dwelling in the lands below, shielded by stone and earth under the ground. If they pretended not to notice the dawning courtship between Bahet and Almyran, it was only so that the two wouldn’t have been discouraged in their endeavor to become more familiar with each other.

It was in the small, innocent things they did – clasping hands, crossing one’s ankles with the other’s, sleeping face to face instead of back to back. Phryn smiles, seeing how Bahet boldly places a hand on Almyran’s thick, clothed thigh, absent-mindedly like it’s the most natural thing in the world, thereby losing her train of thought and letting her heated description of what she’d perceived of the stone pillars in the afternoon slip from her mind.

If they keep this up much longer, even Keez’a and Khetiwe are bound to notice at some point. But for the moment, the balance within the group is solid, and fraternizing isn’t at all something to be worried of.

The rest of the evening is spent theorizing about what to do come morning, and Almyran produces a thick, beaten and road-worn journal from his pack. The three of them skim notes, morsels of stories collected through their travels, and read, for the hundredth time, pages ripped from tomes no one should discover Almyran maimed for the sole purpose of this expedition. Bahet reassures him that the Goddess would lend Her help in mending the pages back to their rightful place, once they return home – and all three blush deeply at the implication that Bahet, perhaps without realizing it herself, is willing to leave her family’s farm for Almyran’s city, deep underground.

The man clears his throat and continues explaining what he knows of the Spring of Havia, all the while a red blush keeps mounting above his beard, all the way to the tips of his ears.

When sleep finally reclaims the rest of the Sunmight, a slice of pale moon is visible right above the ceiling hole of the hut, and Phryn closes their eyes thinking of what mysteries remain to be uncovered before their calling has been fulfilled.

Khetiwe is the first one awake. She sits on the edge of the hut where the clay floor stops and the sand begins. She carefully places her bare feet among the tawny grains, letting them sink gradually below the surface, seeking the night chill deeper below. She sighs happily and fixes the cotton wraps around her fists, and plumps the padding inside her chest-piece before donning it under her blue linen wrap. When the others rouse, little by little, they eventually find the warrior gazing intensely at the central pillar from the edge of the stone circle, rage in her usually kind eyes. She looks like she’s about ready to throw down with that massive sculpted creature, uncaring of whether its form is flesh or stone.

Another meager but most welcome morning spread, delivered promptly by Bahet’s Goddess one short profanity-filled request later, is enough to quiet the thundering emotions within Khetiwe. The fight in her longs to find a mark, they’ve trekked for weeks in search of their target and the magic-infused field surrounding that statue must’ve felt like an insult to her combat-driven mind. Sensing her disappointment and confusion, Keez’a wraps their arm around Khetiwe’s shoulders, and the two spend the rest of breakfast in a lively exchange of hand movements and short replies, aimed at mocking and joking about the stone statue and its placement so far from the rest of the settled lands.

As always, the playful exchange between the two companions over a shared cup of water and a handful of bright goldenberries sparks something in the back of Phryn’s mind. But conjectures need time to stew, and for now the Sunmight have other capers to contend with, first of all safely breaching the ring of stone pillars.


	2. Chapter 2

In the end, the clay hut needs to be reformed for several days in a row, which the party spends camping outside the grounds of what was once known as the Wellspring of Havia, testing the sand and the stone, analyzing the pillars’ placement and scrutinizing from afar carvings and potential inscriptions across the structure of the central body. After five days of poring over texts aimlessly, Keez’a yowls to the sky in frustration and begins to storm away from the rest of the group. Khetiwe’s attempt to placate her companion results in them hissing ferociously at the warrior, fur rising menacingly and sharp teeth bared. Khetiwe winces from their reaction, but quickly realizes there’s little to be done, and lets Keez’a run off past the nearby dunes.

The rest of the day is spent pacing around the “spring” in defeat, until at one point both Khetiwe and Bahet begin yelling that they’re just going to touch the pillars, consequences be damned, and it takes all of Almyran and Phryn’s strength to hold the two women back from the stones. That’s when they realize that they’re all losing their minds over this, and they need a break to recuperate.

Almyran and Bahet cuddle openly under the reds and purples of the sunset, murmuring in each other’s ear about the greatness of the Sun, and what their respective God and Goddess must think of them in seeing them so disheveled and out of sorts. Among heavy pants, Bahet finally calms down enough to melt in her friend’s embrace.

Khetiwe is clutching at her knees, sitting in a tight bundle with her back against the clay hut they’re starting to think of as home, and tears stream down her dusty cheeks, cleaning dark paths in her sand-covered skin. She sniffles, then furiously digs a hole into the ground under her before screaming into it.

Phryn hears the entire ordeal from inside the hut, and it does nothing to quiet down their pounding headache. The effort to restrain Khetiwe has also awakened old sores. In the relative privacy afforded by everyone’s own exasperation with the current circumstances, Phryn removes their robes, and undresses of their linen chemise, until they’re in their sandals and covered only by bundled fabric around their hips that falls over their slender legs, shaped by decades on horseback. Phryn looks down, not sure what they expect to see, but the red branding scars across their chest look even angrier than they remembered. They sigh in defeat, and rummage in their pack for clean bandages, something they haven’t needed in a long time. They finish tightly wrapping the white cloth around their chest just in time for tiny beads of blood and clear yellow fluid to gather where the scars fold under the armpits. Tomorrow, they’ll have to ask Bahet to take a look at their old burns, to make sure they’re only inflamed and not infected – and they’ll need to be sure to do so in secret from Khetiwe. The last thing they want is for the woman to blame herself for making Phryn overexert themselves, even if that’s the case.

Dinner is spent in complete quiet, and even supper is served in silence, aside from the ‘zing’ of the last ray of sun for the day touching ground to deliver watery soup and hard bread in plain earthenware bowls.

“Sorry, I’m just exhausted. I wish there was more I could do.” Bahet’s apologetic expression makes everyone else feel sadder, but they all shake their heads and whisper kind ‘no’s to make her calm down.

“You always do a lot. It’s okay to only do a little, sometimes,” Khetiwe comforts her in heavily accented common speech from the threshold to the hut, as if scared to bring inside the leftover anger from the past few days.

Phryn cleans crumbs from their lap and rises, announcing to the rest that they’re going to go find Keez’a over the dunes. They’ve noticed a rock outcropping and they’re hoping that it’s where their friend has run to. Everyone else nods and turns in for the night.

Moving in the darkness as their feet sink into the black sand is an ordeal, but Phryn knows the earth well enough to find their footing with each step.

“Keez’a? Are you there? Keez’a?” they whisper to the night sky, a hand cupped against their cheek to help the voice cover the distance.

A few seconds later, a rueful yip rises from the pitch-black underside of a large boulder, the waxing moon casting ethereal light over a slender tail.

Phryn interlaces their fingers and a wobbly, unsure globe of light rests in their palm. Carefully, they close in on Keez’a, and once the two are face to face, their feline eyes are rimmed with sand-filled tears. Their fur is mussed all over, and a wet spots marks the ground under the tip of Keez’a’s tail. Phryn would be worried, if they didn’t know what happened. Whenever Keez’a is in distress or anxious about something, they catch their tail between their teeth and gently gnaw at it until the fear passes; evidently, the long days without making progress have taken a toll on them, and worry just wouldn’t go away.

“I’m sure Bahet won’t mind helping you with that. Are you better? What happened? Do you need anything?” Phryn cautiously caresses a bare shoulder, and is pleased to find that Keez’a slowly starts purring in the back of their throat.

A long time passes before their paws move in front of them.

“Better. No need, only tired.”

“Are you sure?” Keez’a nods enthusiastically, it's clear that the last thing they want is to give the Sunmight more to worry about. “What happened?” Phryn inquires with the gentlest of voices they can muster.

“You read much. Many books. Many words. I cannot read. I don’t know. No help. No understanding. No use.” Defeated paws drop in Keez’a’s lap after every sentence.

“Oh no, Keez’a. We love you. We are just having a hard time understanding what to do. I’m sorry you feel like you’re useless. I’m sorry I cannot help you participate. I just don’t want anyone to be hurt. I can’t let anybody do reckless things without making sure it’s safe. Once we know what to do, it’ll be easier. Ok?” Something clicks inside of Phryn, and as they speak, tears start forming and dripping down their face.

“Good. Thank you. I’m sorry. Is Khetiwe good? Hurt her?” Keez’a signs Khetiwe’s name as ‘my heart’, a habit they’d started a few months back. When the rest of the group asked what it meant, they’d answered, embarrassed eyes downcast to the floor, that it was just how you said Khetiwe’s name in sign language; Bahet, Almyran and Phryn might’ve believed them, if it wasn’t for the fact that Keez’a had always signed K-H-E-T before that moment. And as for Khetiwe, if she knew what it meant, she never said anything to Keez’a to embarrass them; and she must’ve known, after all she had learned sign language the quickest among them, even surpassing Bahet in proficiency, whose mother had been deaf for the better part of 20 years.

“She’s… frustrated. I’m afraid she’ll do something reckless if we don’t make progress soon. But she’s fine, you didn’t hurt her. Come on, let’s get back to the hut. Would you like me to bandage your tail of do you want to clean it up yourself?” Phryn helps Keez’a up, and they put their paws up as if to say “It’s okay, it won’t be necessary.”

Khetiwe springs to her feet as soon as the couple crosses over a dune, and the rest of the night is spent getting some much needed rest, while the warrior helps Keez’a stretch their limbs, and softly scratches behind their ears until they both fall asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

A few slow days follow, but on their tenth day at the Wellspring of Havia, at dawn, the group is stirred awake by a soft pitter-patter of rain against the walls of the hut, and a wet circle marks the center of the floor where water is falling from the ceiling hole. Keez’a’s quick reflexes make them shake a foot as soon as rain wets the fur there, and their soft huff against Khetiwe’s pointed ear is enough to awaken her as well. Phryn is roused by the warrior’s sing-song voice quizzically asking where the others have gone.

Halfway between the hut and the stone pillars, Almyran and Bahet are standing in their night garbs, soaked and purposeful. Light tan linen breeches and a bare chest full of dark curls on one side, and a long sky blue nightgown trailing in the wet sand, framed by wispy strands of straight black hair entangled in the rising breeze, on the other. Their palms are connected, and both are muttering prayers under their breath, inhaling in unison, eyes closed in reverence, exhaling as one. Above them, a ring of dark storm clouds is suspended as if held by a fishing line, its proximity and the odd shape hinting at its divine nature. Blessed rain bathes all five of them, and as soon as Almyran and Bahet finish their worship of each of their aspects of the Sun, they turn to the rest of the group, strip naked and start washing themselves, laughing and dancing in the downpour, without a care in the world. Almost in ecstasy. Keez’a shrugs and joins them, shedding their underpants and running in the sand with the corners of their blanket clutched in each paw, waving it like a cape behind them. Khetiwe wraps her sleeping robe around her shoulders and secures it with a knot over the left one, where she usually fastens her clan’s traditional garb. Then, with her blanket balled up haphazardly in front of her lap, she smiles placidly to the clouds and starts singing a deep rumbling tune. Phryn lets the rain fall over their entire body, cleansing the sweat and grime from their underclothes before going back to the hut to gather everyone’s travel cloaks to wash them.

After an hour or so of watery shenanigans, the storm dissipates and the sun shines brighter than ever. Keez’a lounges on a nearby slab of stone, stretching lengths of slick black fur and basking in the sun; their tail draws ‘S’s in the air while their body beckons the warmth, and the rest of the Sunmight quickly joins them. Then, modesty rushing back to them all at once, Almyran and Bahet quickly cover themselves up and bashfully catch each other’s gaze.

Gruff and in a poor attempt to mask his shyness, Almyran explains to the rest of the group that he and Bahet had thought of joining prayers for a little surprise. Everyone is thankful, but the shadow of obstacles ahead still looms, despite the temporary diversion. That’s when Keez’a notices something coming off the pillars in the spring’s clearing.

“What? What!” they sign frantically as they run towards the pillars, arms flailing in the air.

“What?” echoes Khetiwe, stumbling in her own rumpled blanket.

Stray rain drops and the morning mist rising from the sand are framing invisible strands coming off the pillars, like the water is getting stuck on a spider web the eye can’t entirely see.

“Well, I’ll be damned… “ the first to follow Keez’a, Bahet moves her wet hair out of her face and inspects the shimmering shapes revealed by the rainfall. “These look like… links of a chain? But instead of metal, they’re-” she can’t finish the sentence, it gets stuck in her throat at the sight of Keez’a stepping into the stone circle. Bahet yells hoarsely, breath and voice catching in her throat, but it’s like Keez’a won’t hear her, and they continue walking into the clearing, transfixed.

Everyone else runs to follow the two of them and they reach the pillars just as Keez’a steps inside.

No one dares to speak, expecting Keez’a to drop dead in a matter of seconds. They take one step, then one more, then several in quick succession, until they’re running around the central statue, a sound not unlike manic laughter springing forth from their parted lips, ivory teeth catching the sun. Khetiwe lets out a loud sigh of relief, but that’s when Keez’a decides to lay a black paw against one of the columns of stone. Amid the Sunmight’s shouts of warning, nothing happens. And after a few suspenseful moments, Keez’a starts jumping and beckoning to the rest with wide arms. They motion, quickly and garbling their words, “No trap, no trap! Safe, stone is warm. Empty space is wet but sun dries the stone quickly. Slippery!” A few short bark-like sounds pierce the morning air, Keez’a’s own rendition of a hearty laugh, “No trap, good to walk! Come! Quickly!”

Everyone is shocked at Keez’a’s brashness but they can’t help but feel ecstatic at the new development in their expedition. They spend the day mapping the carvings of each pillar, studying the inscriptions previously hidden under a layer of sand, cleared by the rain, and discover lengthy passages in an unknown language on the stone floor of the spring’s former site. Almyran excitedly fishes a thick, compact book, with thousands of ridiculously thin pages, so thin the print on both faces can be seen through the paper.

“It was a gamble, but I knew it would’ve been worth it to steal this! In this book there’s everything we need to decipher the stone-tongue. When you came to the library, “ Almyran releases a hearty belly-laugh as he turns to face Phryn, “and told me about what you were seeking, I had a feeling I was going to need this. And from the looks of it, these carvings match the contents of this manual! Give me a few days, friends, and I’ll translate all I can.” The Sunmight can’t help but mirror the broad smile on Almyran’s face, and the man waddles off, the crotch and hem of his breeches still soaked and dripping, to fetch a quill, ink and stacks of paper to begin taking notes.

The effort of summoning rain has taken a toll on Bahet, who ends up having to cook using the group’s travel supplies at sundown instead of summoning a banquet. Keez’a lunges past a dune and returns with a desert-dwelling critter similar to a fox or ferret clutched in their maw; Khetiwe digs a pit big enough for a proper fire, and the two women begin roasting the prey, as Keez’a grooms themselves with pride a few meters from them.

Phryn walks off, and they begin dragging their feet all around the large stone clearing of the spring. They look distracted, but more than that, Phryn looks defeated, somehow. Almyran is gathering the last of his parchments and papers under cover of darkness, and he’s about to leave quietly as to not spook Phryn, when the leader of their expedition doubles over and begins crying.

Stunted, poised sobs, like it’s all they can do to contain themselves.

“Phrynn? My friend, what happened?” Almyran leaves the documents on the travel desk he brought along and approaches Phryn’s kneeling form.

“Nothing, I’m alright. I’m just… angry.”

“Why in the Oracle’s name would you be angry for? We made great progress today! I, myself, am very excited about what I disco-”

Phrynn breaks the quiet exchange with a louder voice, full of exasperation and dripping guilt. “We could’ve find out about this days ago, if only I hadn’t been so needlessly careful. Coddling you like children, barring you from entering the clearing - all because I was scared of how it would’ve looked to my tribe if I’d gotten my companions killed!”

“You’re not one to care about what your tribe thinks, not much beyond the honor of completing your quest anyway. I tend to believe you behaved so cautiously because, well, you care about us enough to not want to see us die. It’s not because you’re responsible for us, it’s because we’re your friends. Sure, we look up to you, we’re here because of you. But we all knew what we were getting into - you made no secret of how difficult this path was going to be - and yet, in the end, we all chose to follow anyway. You’re right, we’re not children, you don’t have to feel responsible if something happens to us, we can look after ourselves. We were lucky enough to all get along with each other pretty well, so there’s always going to be someone watching our back. It’s not all on you, Earth-Speaker.” he approaches and gathers Phrynn’s slender form in a earthy hug, ticklish beard and steel-forged forearms grounding them in the moment of companionship.

They sniffle and use a sleeve to dry their nose, crouching to better return the hug.

“That’s it, Earth-Speaker, let it all out. You should be proud that we’ve made progress, it doesn’t matter how long it takes. I’ve spent decades underground with my nose buried in dusty tomes. Believe me, a couple more weeks in the desert are a  _ vacation  _ to a poor bookworm like me.”

The two spend a few minutes huddled together, sitting on the steps that lead up the stone slab of the clearing. Bugs or the like chitter and chirp in the distance, reminding both of them of the nights spent camping near the wheat fields, back when it was just the two of them.

“I’m sorry I dragged you all into this…” they moan into Almyran’s tunic.

“Don’t even say it. For the Oracle’s sake, I don’t wanna hear you say it! This type of behavior was acceptable when you first came to Queen’s Drop, but now I know better than to let you piss all over yourself, Earth-Speaker. Cheer up, will you? We’re all alive, we got this far in no small part thanks to your guidance. You’ve got more stakes in this than the rest of us, but after five years, I’d say that I earned a right to care about this Oracle-forsaken spring as much as you do.” Almyran grabs Phryn by their shoulders and keeps them at arm's length while he reprimands their attitude.

“Five years, already? Then… of course, you’re right. I don’t know why I reacted like this. I guess it was all the stress of the past weeks looking for a way out. I trust your judgement. If you say it’ll be alright, I believe you. How’s the translation coming along? Any clues on what that statue might be?” they are quick to change subject, eager to move past the commiseration and not dwell on their personal failings. Even after the long years of research, Phryn is not used to the responsibility of having to lead a band of people across the desert, from city to city, blindly and with so little information to go off of that every new shred of truth threatens to send them across the country, eager to discover more. All things considered, the hardest part is over, now that they’re sure to have found the legendary location of the Wellspring of Havia, all that’s left is to solve its secrets. Phryn and Almyran companionably walk back to the red hut chatting about the stone-tongue and possible meanings to the carved words on the clearing, and find Bahet setting down bowls of steaming food while the others fold spare clothes and set their gear aside to prepare the room for the night.


	4. Phryn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of suicidal ideation, drug abuse.

The first challenge had been overcoming the fever. Phryn had gone in and out of consciousness, the Elder hadn’t even been as considerate as to stop the tribe’s travels, and so they had to recover on the back of a cart, wobbly and unsure as it slowly crossed the Salt Plains south to the coast. Storms had followed at their heels, urging them to reach some town or another to stock up on what the tribe didn’t have means to make on their own as soon as possible - tar to rainproof their linens, lubricant and parts to keep the carts oiled and moving, and what grains they needed to replace the molding sacks they’d been hauling for far too long through the rainy season. In their addled state, Phryn wasn’t sure if the pitter-patter on their face came from the rain, or from the strange spray they were seeing in their dreams. Tall lances of water, shining in the sun like ribbons of gold and silver, a lip of marble, running around a shallow pool. Such an oasis could only exist in their mind, the tribe had never encountered such a place in all of their travels. They turned, clutching their burning chest loosely, looking for other witnesses to that odd sight, and when they turned back, a sitting area had appeared in their field of vision. Silk drapes gently moving in the breeze, hung around a wooden structure, sunbeds and plump pillows all around the fountain. The cattails and lily pads dotting the surface of the blue-green water looked strangely out of place, like they weren’t from this world. Indeed, it looked like the entire oasis - the fountain and the surrounding off-white stone and patches of otherworldly green grass - had been plucked from somewhere else and placed here, away from sight. A secret garden just for Phryn; but if stories had taught them anything, is to never accept the gifts of the fairies. However, the pain is blinding, and they can feel blood and molten skin sloughing off their wounds and no manner of logic can stop them from taking a seat, shedding their sandals and sashes, and lying down in the warm sun. Consequences be damned if simply making themselves at home beckons some sort of punishment.

Between the antiseptic salves applied to their burns and the long pulls of the tribe’s strongest spirits, Phryn falls asleep again, and revisits the spring. In the dreamscape, they wash the grime away, they soothe the sorrows and grief of having lost a part of their body. Months pass, in and out of the oasis. Scabs fall and new, fresher ones that pull the skin tight form over the blanched scars. The tribe leaves a trail of bandages behind, such is the length of Phryn’s recovery. if the  _ E’va Vy _ have reached a town, Phryn isn’t privy to that information. They are too far gone into their otherworldly existence. And some days being awake is too unbearable. It’s so easy to place a few drops of Bitter Root tincture on their tongue, shielded from the Elder’s gaze, and let the Beyond seize their limbs. They fear not waking again, but Phryn knows that this too is part of the ritual, and that if they’re meant to survive it, they shall. And if they don’t, they never deserved to in the first place.

After long, lazy days spent lounging by the fountain, Phryn gathers their courage and strips nude. Their chest is flat, white and red welts crossing its width over the once unmarred amber skin. It’s shameful. Unsightly. A permanent wound, the mere sight of it making them question the worth of the ritual. The Earth-Speaker before them hadn’t been marked this deeply, perhaps the Elder had burrowed the iron into Phryn’s flesh more viciously than necessary out of spite. The Earth-Listeners had never looked this badly, neither had they taken this long to recover from the mutilation. It almost seemed done on purpose. Perhaps Phryn was going to have a bigger role in the tribe, and the branding would be there as proof. But such responsibility, such weight… Even easier than plunging into unconsciousness would be to simply down the entire bottle of Bitter Root and leave everything behind. Just then, when Phryn is observing their maimed chest with judging gaze, a strange wind whistles between the rock formations at their back. They look up, and at the center of the fountain is a new addition. A towering white figure - a woman, with gentle curves and full hips. Her belly is generous, almost bloated under the expertly carved, water-soaked and translucent marble fabric around her hips. Her breasts are large and sagging under their weight, but still they’re prosperous and outrageously on display. Something cracks inside of Phryn - shame, perhaps, or hope. The woman depicts everything Phryn will never be, an with such a welcoming, kind gaze. It’s hard to understand the consequences of such a harrowing ritual as they’ve undergone, especially when you’re a bright and gifted young apprentice and the Elder is promising you a world of power and strength beyond the flames, the pain, and the near-death. They’ve almost forgotten what the reward is supposed to be.

Tears start streaming down Phryn’s face, they fall heavy and full of sorrow to join the mirror or fresh water inside the fountain. Phryn drops to their knees and crawls into the spring, to beg at the statue’s feet for an explanation. For something that would make all of this worthwhile.

Nothing comes - no divine voice guiding them to consciousness, no affectionate touch, no understanding. The woman stands still, mocking and perfect.

More months pass, and while the mortal body is healing, Phryn’s mind struggles to keep up, nearly refuses to be present when they’re awake. When they sleep, they keep visiting the spring. Now, the sun is setting behind the mountains, and the water doesn’t spray through the air with as much strength as it did in the beginning. It’s like the oasis is slowly falling asleep. Pillows and cushions disappear, the flora populating the fountain is gone one night and never manifests again afterwards. The covered nook with its silken curtains is nowhere to be seen. It’s almost like the spring knows what’s not needed any longer. No frills, no ornaments to please the eye and no benches to ease the flesh. Only the crumbling marble lip of the fountain and the still, ankle-deep water inside. Even the woman at the center looks more stoic; whatever presence within her is gone, all that remains is an uncaring, unfeeling, unmoving statue.

It’s an uphill battle to recover from the mental scars left by the ritual. When Phryn resolves to never touch the Bitter Root tincture again, they know they’ve healed through the worst of it. Uncertainty remains, and they begin doubting everything and everyone, and their motives - not sparing themselves of the scrutiny, either. But on what will be Phryn’s last visit to the spring, a different emotion settles in their chest. Whereabout underneath the broad scarring, if Phryn had to place it anywhere in their body. Doubt is in their head, but serenity is in their heart, finally.

The ritual is a terrible, gut-wrenching tradition. One that has without doubt turned many from within and without the tribe from staying or joining their ranks. The worship of Zevyrah grows lonelier and more misunderstood with each new Earth-Listener and Earth-Speaker that is forged with blades and flames. But at the end of the fourteen months Phryn has spent searching for a meaning to this, to their entire existence, an answer finally comes. They found it on their last night at the spring, when the sky is pitch black, the water is a void and yet the female statue, even in its lack of humanity, manages to be a oddly comforting sight, stark marble against the dark backdrop.

That figure, ‘that’ is who Phryn used to be. The offspring of generations of other women dating back centuries. Their ancestor, the first one to lie with Eor, is the mother of everyone in Phryn’s tribe. But a womb, the seed of life - no matter how divine it might be - is not what their Goddess is after. Zevyrah was a mother before going to the Realms Beyond. To save the little ones She had given birth to, she was allowed to travel with the Gods. In exchange, Her mortal children will always be protected by Her watchful gaze. And yet, not all can be cherished as they are. The stone, for one, which has no voice nor hands with which to worship, cannot touch Zevyrah ever again. And so, the  _ E’va Vy Zevyrah _ , Her pebbles, need to cherish the stone, forgotten and left behind by everyone and everything else. With the ritual, Phryn can speak to the stone; mold it, move it, command it and summon it to themselves for the good of the tribe, but most importantly, so that the stone can feel Zevyrah’s strength once more through Phryn’s.

With the ritual, something was lost, yet something else was gained. Phryn is a true child of Zevyrah. They’re the stone from which every pebble comes and will return to. They are the dust, the ash, and sand shaven from stone, ground so fine and without sin, even Zevyrah the Sifter can see their true power and endless goodness.

Phryn swears to use their newfound strength for righteous purposes, justly, in Zevyrah’s name.

And at the end of their journey, once the meaning has been found and understood, the Elder, keeper of lore and knowledge, reveals to Phryn that the vision they saw was a glimpse of the Beyond. A unique sight gifted by their Goddess Herself, showing Phryn their mission, their quest. It’s not the first they hear of this, but never would Phryn have thought that the awe-inspiring fountain in the middle of a desolate landscape would’ve been their destination. Unfortunately the Elder has nothing else to offer, the rest will be up to Phryn.

Fully healed and sound of mind once more, with resolve and dedication etched on their features, Phryn splits from her tribe,  _ Zevyrah’s Gravel _ , and journeys to the closest city, hoping to research the life-changing visions of the spring and its matron to uncover this new mystery.


End file.
